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Suspect list in case I die:
1. MD4L- Pretty self explanatory. Survived a lynch and a night kill. Somethings up with him.
2. Kaiser - Still think he could be a troll.
3. Guru - Been suspicious of him from the start, hes done nothing to remove those suspicions.
4. Eli - Same as above

Comment

It’s a Saturday night, and Hunter is just chilling in his dorm on Walterfootball.com. He could be out partying, but grammar policing is a full time job that he’s not quite ready to give up on.

Rocking out to Pandora radio like the chick from the AT&T commercial, he doesn’t hear the lock being picked.

A masked man, dressed in all black, with the kind of cheap dress shoes a waiter would wear, enters Hunter’s dorm room.

He sneaks up on Hunter, who sees him in his peripheral vision but assumes it’s just one of his roommates.

“How ya doin’, buddy?” the man says.

“No, I’m an only child.”

“What the fuck? Get those pieces of shit off your head.”

The man yanks Hunter’s Beats headphones and throws them on the ground, and holds a knife up to his neck.

Hunter, who can hardly breathe much less talk, can’t find the words to say to this man. Suddenly he thinks of that wonderful, articulate, badass fan of the Dallas Cowboys on the Walterfootball forums, and it comes to him.

“What do you want?”

“Give me your laptop. And phone. And all other electronics you have.”

“That all?”

“Phone and Mac first, while you’re still at knifepoint.”

Hunter concedes. Still less than inch away from a slit throat, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, and hands it to this man. He shuts his laptop and gives it up as well.

As opposed to keeping them and selling them like anyone with common sense, the man, in a bout of psychosis, throws the devices out of the window. 5 stories up, this could’ve been a disaster. Luckily, they only killed one squirrel. They did, however, interfere with three transactions of improper benefits. The MacBook landed into the safe hands of Terrelle Pryor, who proceeded to throw it in the trash, already owning 12 of them.

“Anything else?” the man asks.

“Dorm phone,” says Hunter.

Hunter directs him to the phone (which no one uses anyway). The man cuts the cord. Hunter immediately tries to run out of his dorm, only to be tripped up by the cables that the man had put up while Hunter was correcting a certain Dolphins’ fans grammar and spelling.

Before he can get up, Hunter gets a bullet to the knee, Leonardo Di Caprio Departed-style.

“You pull that shit again and this goes to your head.”

“Got it.”

“Where else have you signed onto Walterfootball?”

“Nowhere,” Hunter replies, having the sense not to direct this man towards the library computer lab or his parents’ house.

“Well that’s good. You sign in on that site one more time, and you’re fucking dead, bro.”

The man leaves. Hunter spends a minute or so debating between chasing down this man and asking him to kill him, or committing the cardinal sin of going to bed before 10:00 on a Saturday night. Eventually, he faints.

He wakes up around 9 the next morning, not sure if it was a dream or not, and stays away from Walterfootball regardless.

Hunter is dead. He was Pheltzbahr, The Old Hag Conformist, Independent-Aligned.

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